


Save Our Souls

by Astray



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e Cambia il Mondo, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Angst, I repeat: THEY ARE NOT RELATED!, Khal Escalus is the only Escalus, M/M, Mercutio POV, Mercutio lives!, angst rollercoaster, no one is related to anyone, unrequite Mercutio/Prince of Verona for most of the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Prince of Verona adopts two orphans, Mercutio and Valentine. He raises them, one to be his heir, the other to help him in his rule. All is well until Mercutio starts harbouring feelings for the Prince, unbeknowst to all but Tybalt. And when Mercutio realizes these feelings are likely never to be returned, he starts sinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SosearchingRomeo (Breakingthestandards)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breakingthestandards/gifts), [tveckling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/gifts).



Mercutio had few memories of his childhood. He did not remember his parents – just a voice singing, but he did not remember what it said. Just that it was a happy sound. He remembered the orphanage – it was not really an orphanage. He faintly recalled the matron that had taken him in – he learned later that he had no relatives in Italy, and that his father's family in France never wanted anything to do with him. Of course, at the time he did not know all this. At the time, all that mattered that he had a roof over his head. Valentine had been there some times before him, and when Mercutio arrived, he took him under his wing.

Valentine's face is the first face Mercutio remembered distinctly. He spoke in a soft voice, and he sung. Valentine had always sung well, and he would do so every time Mercutio would not sleep. He did not remember well what happened there. Just that Valentine was there, and he had warm food, and warm blankets, and that he was taken care of.

Mercutio remembered the first time he had seen the Prince of Verona, who would then become his uncle. He was nine at the time, and their caretaker told him someone wanted to see him. He had run away, and clung to Valentine. Even then, he hated to be separated from Valentine. And he had seen boys and girls being called because someone wanted to see them. They never came back! In the end, Val had gone with him, but he was frantic – what if that person was here to kill him? Would they kill Val? Did they kill orphans before they grew too much? In retrospect, it seemed very silly, but at the time, Mercutio had been fed terrifying stories about what befell orphans. Some spoke of death, some spoke of places worse than Hell itself. Mercutio was sure he would not go to Hell – and he would not let Val go there too!

When he entered the parlour, he only saw the Prince's back. To a child, he looked formidable – and scary. Mercutio had meant to be brave, but this man was too impressive for him to manage anything more than a squawk. Was this the devil? The Prince turned around, and it was not a devil that Mercutio saw, but a man. As soon as he saw them, this man who seemed to dwarf even giants stooped to the ground, to be at his level. It was something that had struck Mercutio. Adults never did that. Adults looked at you down their nose, if they did not know you. But not him. Mercutio was certain right then that this stranger meant him no harm. To this day, Mercutio remembered his smile. It was a shy smile, and it looked strange on such a great man – as if he was unsure, but it was silly. Adults were never unsure. He had smiled back, the biggest smile he could manage, and never mind that his own smile lacked a few teeth.

He did not really recall when or how they came to live to Villafranca. What he knew was this: at one point, the Prince had carried him. He had been lulled by his heartbeat, like a quiet drum meant to calm his blackest fears.

Valentine's voice cut through his recollections: “Still dreaming, brother?”

He shook himself, and turned from the book he was not reading to his brother. “Thinking. Reminiscing.”

“Wonder what that is – you smile like a fool.”

With this, Mercutio got up, laying the book down carefully before sauntering to Valentine. He would grow taller than Valentine, that was certain! If that idiot could stop growing up, that was!

“Of course, brother. But I am your fool!” He clung to Valentine, burying his face in his chest. “You love me, brother?” It was a question he kept asking. He had to know if people loved him all the time. He knew the answer, but it did not matter. He just had to ask.

“I do, Cutio.” Valentine stroked his hair, and Mercutio could practically hear his disapproval. Valentine liked to be very neat, and Mercutio's hair had so far resisted all attempts at taming it. And he did not want to cut it. After a while, Valentine spoke up again, “Giovanni has disappeared again. Have you seen him today?”

“No. Maybe he's in town? He sneaks around a lot these days.”

A chuckle answered him. “Cutio, the Prince of Verona doesn't sneak around...”

“Does too! But he can't hide well.” He thought for a second. “I should teach him.”

Valentine groaned. “I'm not sure it's a great idea. Besides, you're too young to teach.”

“I'm not!” He did his best to sound as scandalized as could be: “I'm twelve! Just because you are three years older than me doesn't make you a grown up you know! And besides, you taught me stuff when you were my age.” That was a foolproof argument, no question about that.

Valentine did not reply, which was a clear sign that he had won the argument, if there ever was one.

“Say what, Val, I'll go and find him, okay? But next time, you do it.” Except he knew that next time he would be the one going. Only he knew the Prince's secret. Comforted by the fact that he knew something that his brother did not, he dashed from the room, crossing the palazzo as fast as his feet could take him, lest the magister sees him and drags him to his lessons.

Mercutio crossed to a side gallery, at the far end of the aisle. These were the Prince's private apartments, where they all lived. Usually, Giovanni went back only for the night, but Mercutio knew of a door hidden by a tapestry. The door led to stairs that snaked around, until it reached one of the small rooms under the roof. It was always warm here, though in winter the wind would scream past and freeze him on the spot. That place was known to all in the palazzo, of course, but no one would have bothered to try and find the Prince here. Climbing the steps as quietly as he could, Mercutio reflected that adults were indeed very stupid sometimes.

He did not bother knocking when he reached the door, merely sliding inside quietly. The Prince was there alright, sitting at a table with his tools, the slow scrapes of blade against wood unmistakable. Mercutio came closer, trying to make his presence known without speaking. Once, he had startled his uncle so badly that he cut his hand. He barely came four feet from the man before his name was spoken, a greeting, and an invitation to come closer. The scrape stopped, and Mercutio took the opportunity to stride to him, and snake his arms around his neck, his head propped on his shoulder as was his habit.

They did not speak for a while, the Prince still carving the wood very carefully. Mercutio thought he recognized this face. It was la signora Montecchi, with her high cheekbones. Mercutio had seen her a few times, because she was Benvolio's aunt, and she always seemed bird-like to him. Looking past her, he took in the spectacle of the wooden puppets his uncle carved in his free time. As if he was trying to capture all of Verona in this small room. All of them bore a wealth of details, and Mercutio saw that his and Valentine's were at the front. On these, they were still the children they were around the time the Prince took them in. There was none of the Prince himself.

Mercutio enjoyed these moments he spent here, in this makeshift workshop. It was in these moments that he felt most at peace. And he liked the contrast between the two main sides of his putative uncle. The Prince was a fearsome man, who was deeply respected and whose words maintained the law. Giovanni Della Scala was gentle, and dedicated to his nephews. Mercutio knew it because it had happened that when him or Val was sick, he would stay with them. Advisers were in charge then. Mercutio was aware that not everyone appreciated his presence, or Valentine's, but it did not matter.

“You had a question, Mercutio?”

He did not reply right away. He knew he promised Valentine to warn their uncle about people requesting his presence or something, but he did not want to leave this place. He was very comfortable. He tightened his grip somewhat.

“Mercutio?” Giovanni put his hand on his, and it made Mercutio feel so small... Which he was definitely not, thank you.

“Val was looking for you. Don't know why.”

A sigh. “And you didn't think it could be important?”

“I didn't want to bother you.”

Giovanni turned around to look at him. Mercutio could tell he was not angry, but he was not very pleased either.

“You don't bother me, ever. You know that.”

“Yeah, but when you come here, it's when people are being annoying. So I figured I won't tell you straight up.”

Giovanni nodded, and opened his arms. Mercutio saw his cue, and immediately went to give him a hug. He would never say it aloud, but he liked it – he liked being in Giovanni's arms like that, because he felt like nothing would ever happen to him.

“Let's see what your brother needs this time, shall we?” Giovanni paused, waiting for a reply, and Mercutio was aware that he could not really get up while holding him, but he did not want to move. “Want me to carry you downstairs?”

“NO!” He leapt away, affronted. He was not a baby anymore! He said so.

“Indeed. Well then, young man, get going.” The Prince was grinning. He looked younger like that – or not as old as he was, because really, anyone older than Valentine was old in his book.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was morning. Mercutio heard the bells from the campanile, but he did not want to move. It was raining, the drowning sound of rain on tiled roof echoing. He buried himself further under the covers. He felt someone move near him, but unless that someone decided to get him out of his hiding spot, he did not care. Arms wrapped around him. It was Valentine. It was not unusual for them to share a bed – in autumn, it was always much nicer, because it meant he could warm his feet on someone. These moments had become rarer as they grew up. Mercutio was aware that it was frowned upon for young men to be bedfellows, he was not stupid, thank you very much. Not that he cared much, because Valentine was his brother, and they were the Prince's nephews, so society could stick it where the sun never shines.

“Get up, Cutio. It's time.”

“'s not.” To prove his point – that it was indeed too early for anything – Mercutio turned around and hugged Valentine. Or rather, he acted as though he wanted to bury his nose in his brother's chest. His mind registered that Valentine was not wearing a shirt, which was odd: he got cold easily and was rarely seen without a shirt, if not his doublet. But he was not going to ask. He was simply content to be in Val's arms like that, warm and comfortable and not up.

“We are expected at church.”

“Church is on Sunday.”

“Exactly.” Valentine sat up, and his movement raised the covers, giving way to a very unpleasant gust of cold air.

Mercutio whined at the gesture, and immediately sought to catch hold of him. Of course, he was too old for this. It worked when he was ten, maybe. Not anymore.

“I don't want to go! It's boring, and it's in Latin! I don't like Latin!”

A sigh. “No one wants to go. But Giovanni is going and so, we have to go too. Come on, get out of bed.”

“I bet Gianni is still in bed too.” That was usually a good argument. Mercutio knew that the mighty Prince of Verona hated going to church so much he was not above pretending to be sick or not to have heard the time. The problem was that he was expected to go and the priest would not start without him. Mercutio recalled quite a few breathless runs to church; it was funny in retrospect but at the time, it really felt like the old crones around the church would effectively burn everyone.

“Mercutio, are you listening?”

“What?” He looked up at Val.

“He is up already. Why do you think I gave you more time this morning?”

“You woke him up and you did not tell me?” He might be fourteen, closing in on fifteen, but it did not mean that he should not act like the child he once was, who would run to the Prince's room and jump on the bed to wake him up. Although he had learned to be more careful after that fateful smashing of the Prince lower back. Giovanni had been very mad on that occasion, because his Mercutio-induced lumbago nearly immobilized him for well over a week.

Valentine did not reply straightaway, and Mercutio eyed him more carefully. His silence was strange, because when Val went mute, it was when he was uncomfortable with something. Mercutio had no idea what he could have said to make his brother uncomfortable. Unless it was the bit about waking Giovanni? He had noticed that they acted differently, and have been for some times, but he put it on account of Val being now a grownup and participating in the whole 'ruling Verona' business. He could not fathom what else it could be. Or rather, he would not think about anything else, because it was getting hard to stay focused where Giovanni was concerned and he just did not want to think about it.

A hard shove woke him up for good, and he would have retaliated if Giovanni was not leaning on the doorframe. Looked like he had been there for a while now. He had this expression Mercutio saw more and more on his face, something secretive, and he had no idea what it meant. Mercutio suddenly felt angry. Angry because he actually had to get up to go to church. Angry because it was not enough that Val came to wake him, but now Giovanni was also there. There were too many people around him right now. It was not a juggler's show! He was awake, now off you go. He got up, not really caring he almost shoved his brother down the bed. He needed to vent, and acting rashly was helping. And besides, he had to get ready. He grabbed his clothes, because apparently no one seemed ready to leave him alone, so he did the next best thing – he made for Val's room. But not before shouting at them to put on a shirt, for Heaven's sake.

The moment he stepped in Val's room, he realized he had made a mistake. The room felt cold, much colder than when someone was sleeping in it. The bed was undisturbed. Even if someone might have made the bed already, which was unlikely, it would not look that way. That bed had not been slept in, Mercutio was certain of it, because that was how his own bed looked when he spent the night at Benvolio's. Maybe Valentine had finally found someone? It would not be so strange. But his mind reminded him of other details – the fact that he had been shirtless. The way Giovanni was looking at them. Something was terribly wrong, something that sprung to mind, unbidden and terrifying and he refused to voice it. He was just paranoid. Yes, paranoid. There was nothing to worry about.

He dressed quickly, not really caring that his hair was a terrible mess. It did not matter anyway. He was shaking. He heard his name called, but did not turn around, not even as Valentine came closer to him. Mercutio took a deep breath, and composed himself. Whatever his mind provided in terms of terrible scenarii, there was no way he would let it show. Not to Valentine. Especially not to him, because he was his brother, and he loved him so very much. He wanted Valentine to be happy. Although he really wished it would not have as price his own misery.

Church was a dull affair. Mercutio did not listen to the drivel, and it was not helping that the whole thing was in Latin. Who used Latin these days? His boredom got him to observe his surroundings. People all looked sour, as if coming here was torture, something he quite readily agreed with. He could not turn around much, lest his inattention be noticed, so he merely looked up and down his row. The Prince was in front of them, as was his place. Other important people were there. He and Valentine were second, as well as heirs from the families. Valentine was on his left, Benvolio on his right. Tybalt was left of Valentine. The ladies were across the nave, because it was not done for them to sit together. Mercutio took to observe Giovanni more closely, as he was wont to do here. It was the only moment when his staring could pass as an innocent look to the altar.

He knew it was wrong – even if they were not related by blood, Giovanni had cared for him as a father, an uncle. Mercutio did not remember when he had started to show interest in anyone, men or women. All the he knew that Giovanni was the only one whose closeness managed to make him weak – not all the time, mind you. But it had happened a few times that he caught Mercutio unaware. He blinked. Valentine was staring at him. And of course, Valentine had to know. They had never talked about it, and with his recent discovery, Mercutio decided to keep all his thoughts to himself. He had no right to want anything from Giovanni that was not what he already had. Though the man could have been less handsome, because it really complicated everything from Mercutio's point of view.

Valentine nudged his shoulder, forcing his attention back to him. Mercutio did not want to talk. He especially did not want his brother to comment on his occupation. Instead, it was a mere sign for him to follow for the Eucharist. Always from the back of the church to the front. He followed mechanically, not exactly caring about anything – he knew the motions. The wafer clung to his palate in a very unpleasant way. His mind also supplied him with a very disturbing image regarding having the body of Christ in his mouth. He coughed to mask his hilarity. Alack, Valentine caught him – and Mercutio would not not share such a priceless information, so he did. Valentine was less lucky because he let out a very audible chortle that had the Prince turn around to glare at them. For some reason, Mercutio was always suspected of mischief when Valentine laughed. Which was true, but it still stung that no one ever believed in his innocence.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Mercutio could not sleep. Valentine had been on and off away to Mantua, whatever that was for. And Giovanni had been growing ruthless in his training – Mercutio was over seventeen now, it was about time he learned all about ruling a city. Mercutio honestly did not want to become the next Prince, and he did not see the use to all the paperwork and endless talk with other politicians. Although things had gotten very interesting when the Florentines had come over. Mercutio wanted to go to Florence, but Giovanni said they would go together with Valentine when Valentine was back. Which was a way of saying that Mercutio would not be allowed to travel on his own before a while. Something to do with him being reckless. He sighed and turned in his bed. He might have been more interested in his lessons but he could not concentrate anymore. What years ago had been just a vague annoyance at the back of his head had grown over the past months into an actual hindrance. He could not be left alone in Giovanni's office with him. It was impossible. His mind would not stop racing and it was just a miracle he had not made a fool of himself. He had to do something.

For the past two years or so, he had thrown himself into the world, so to speak. At first, it had meant needling Tybalt Capulet into fights, because it had been easy. Almost too easy. Eventually, the fighting grew into a play for all to see, something they would talk about afterwards. They had grown much closer as time passed, and while Mercutio's best friend was Benvolio, he and Tybalt shared something different. He could ask things of him that he would never ask Benvolio, for one. And he could also let go of any pretense – they both had to pretend a lot, after all. Rather naturally, they ended up having sex, although Mercutio was not particularly fond of the first time it happened, mostly because of the hangover that battered his skull the next day. And upon finding out that Tybalt did not mind him at all, they kept seeing each other. It was not love, but Mercutio was content with what they had together. To be perfectly honest with himself, Mercutio had to say that Tybalt alone managed to push his crush on Giovanni away from his mind every time.

Mercutio sighed. Maybe it was time to pay Tybalt a visit. His bed was cold. And he would probably start mulling over his situation soon enough, as he was wont to do when sleep evaded him. He got up. There was no point in staying here anyway. Usually, he would go and talk to Valentine, but he knew better than to try now. Valentine had come back from Mantua for a month, but it had been hard finding a moment with him. There was always something. A distant bell tolled eleven. He dressed quickly and stole out of his room. He walked quietly down the corridor. He could try and use the window, but that was risky, and last time he did, the guards on patrol caught him and he got hell. Not that he was not allowed out of the palazzo – more like, he could have broken his neck. So, for these poor men's sake, he would take the door. He passed Valentine's room, then the door to Gianni's. He tried to be even more stealthy because Gianni had a fine hearing and would probably hear him. Downstairs, he saw the lights still on in the library. Whoever was up, he figured he might go and warn them. He knew that Valentine would check on him before going to bed, as he always had done, and if he did not see him, he would rouse the dead.

Mercutio wished he had not opened the door. He really wished he had not. He could not move. He could hear anything over the roar of his blood. Valentine and Giovanni... Kissing. And it was not exactly tame either. He wanted to look away, but he could not. He had known, of course. He had not wanted to see, but there it was. The irrefutable proof that sent his world crashing down. He could not breathe. For one second, one crazy second, he thought about coming in. But what would he say? What could he possibly say? He had no right to say anything. Finally, his feet moved, and he found himself walking away in a daze through the hall, to the great doors that led to the street. And then, he ran. He ran as fast as he could, and thoughts were banished as he reached the other side of the piazza. He did not really need to see where he was going. He stopped only when he had climbed the garden's wall, and scaled to the second window on the right. He barely had time to knock that it was opened, and hands grabbed his arms to help him inside.

Only practice prevented him from flopping unceremoniously on the floor. The room was lit by a few candles, and books laid on the desk. He straightened up, and glanced at the man who was now sorting out the books in a neat pile. If a few years before someone would have told him he would sneak at night to Tybalt Capulet's room, he would have laughed. He did not feel like laughing, though. He went to sit on the bed, confused. It had been a bad move, he was sure of it. But he had no one else to go to. Sure, he had other friends, but he could not talk to them.

“Did the cat get your tongue at last?” Tybalt turned back to look at him, and Mercutio stared back. For an instant, he wondered how easy it would have been to love Tybalt instead. Even if Tybalt would not have loved him either way. He shook his head. He had no words to say.

Tybalt undressed, as if he weren't here, and Mercutio was grateful for it. It had taken a long time to grow accustomed to this closeness, this intimacy. They knew each other well-enough not to speak over much. Mercutio undressed as well – there was no point in staying dressed on the side of the bed. He turned around to do so, and did not hear Tybalt walking up to him until his arms wrapped around his waist and his head came to rest on his shoulders.

“Something happened, right.”

He could not help but nod. Tybalt knew. He was the only soul he had told his secret to, and he was entrusted with a similar one.

“You want to speak about it?”

Tybalt's breath on his neck, his warm, solid weight against his back. It made him feel grounded. Mercutio was no longer floating in a limbo, and for a moment, he forgot just how alone he felt. Because right there and then, he was not alone. He turned to face Tybalt, lightly ran his fingers on his face, in his hair. He could understand that Giovanni did not want him – Valentine and he looked alike, and Valentine was older. But that Benvolio, the one Tybalt loved so much, did not love him back? He found it an outrage. Especially when you get past all the rage and self-deprecation and overall recklessness.

He found he had to reply, and he merely let out a 'no'. He did not need to elaborate, explain why he did not want to. He did not want to. In this room, the world outside did not exist. His heart and its wounds laid on the sill, away from him. When Tybalt kissed him, he did not move away. He drew closer, kissed him back like a drowning man. And maybe he felt like crying, because it was not love, just understanding, and temporary comfort, but it felt like a shadow of love, and it hurt and soothed him all at once.

He kissed him back, almost desperately. He would not think of Giovanni, or Valentine, or the emotional turmoil this left him in. He stepped back towards the bed, bringing Tybalt along with him. In this room, there was only the two of them. He kept his eyes opened, not wishing his mind to wander from the present moment. He fell back on the mattress, barely had time to shuffle backward before Tybalt joined him, and surely it must have been ridiculous, and he smiled. Tybalt kissed him again, and it felt like pouring their hearts into it, for they had no one else to share it with. Hands ran across his skin, and he needed more of that touch. And what did it matter that it lasted only a few hours, that by morning they would be back into themselves? Tybalt brought him back to life, and Mercutio believed he did too.

When morning came, Mercutio refused to move. His head was resting on Tybalt's shoulder, and he felt blissfully at peace. He noticed that Tybalt was awake, his breathing too quiet to be that of a sleeping man. Obviously, he must have moved, because now a hand was lightly caressing his hair, and this small gesture made him feel better yet. He usually did not like people playing with his hair. He wound his left arm tighter around Tybalt's waist, snuggling closer still.

“It's past eight.” It was no more than a whisper but it carried in the still silence of the room.

“Is it a subtle way to throw me out?”

“You always ask the time, Mercutio.”

He nodded. It was true. He just felt like he had to poke fun at their situation. He rarely stayed too long in the morning. After all, Tybalt had obligations, being the only man in the house besides Lord Capulet. Who may not like it very much to see him here, truth be told. Although it was hard to know, because it never happened so far.

“You think too much.” Tybalt sighed. “How are you feeling?”

Of course he was asking about last night. And he did not feel like lying. He was already lying to everyone, so he did not see the point in lying to Tybalt, of all people. And so, he told him what he had seen. And maybe his voice broke as he spoke, maybe he did cling to Tybalt, and maybe Tybalt had gathered him in his arms, stroking his back gently. The gesture was so intimate it almost broke him. He did not deserve such kindness. And Tybalt deserved better than just being here to comfort him, right? He told him just that.

“Well, it's not like anything is going to change soon. And better you be there than wreaking havoc on the streets, don't you think?”

“Why, because you'd have to fight me?”

“That. And really, it would not serve any purpose, would it?”

Mercutio took a deep breath. “No advising me to talk to either of them?”

“And what for? Do what you will in your own time. And really,” he moved back to look Mercutio in the eye, “do you think it's a conversation you want to have?”

He shook his head. Of course not. He had to find something else to occupy himself. And he knew exactly what.

“How about me helping you out with Ben, then?”

The groan Tybalt let out was so loud, Mercutio wondered if someone was going to check on him. Not that they were ever especially quiet, but still. Some decorum to observe. And he would get these two idiots together even if he had to kidnap his best friend so they actually talk.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Since Mercutio now had proof that whatever hopes he had were to be meaningless, he set out to help Tybalt. Not that Tybalt really wanted his help, but after several days of near shouting matches, he gave up. They both knew why Mercutio was doing it. However, it was not simple. He could not very well kidnap Benvolio, no matter what he said. He was sitting with Tybalt under a tree, in a grove near the city walls – far enough that no one would question them. His mind raced after ideas. A nudge made him look at his companion, who handed him an apple quarter. He took it gratefully – his stomach had been growling for the past hour, as he had completely foregone breakfast so that he would not face Giovanni. Valentine had gone back to wherever he was supposed to be this time, so it was slightly less awkward. Still too awkward.

He sighed. How on Earth could he bring these two idiots together? The feud was still a big deal, and Tybalt really did not help matters. What with all those declarations of hatred every time their path crossed.

“Seriously, why? You talked yourself in a corner!”

“And you silenced yourself into one.” There was no bite in Tybalt's tone as he spoke, but it still stung. “I had to say something, and I could not exactly tell the truth. It would have been-”

“Ridiculous and suicidal. Yes. But still! How do I convince him now?”

“I thought I was to do the convincing?” Tybalt raised his eyebrows the moment Mercutio turned to glare at him.

Mercutio groaned in exasperation. He created a monster. He let his head fall back against the tree, and regretted it the instant pain bloomed at the back of his skull.

“Really, Mercutio. I don't know how to do it, neither do you. Unless someone else is involved, I don't see how to get out of this mess.”

And then it dawned on Mercutio. He had pestered Romeo and Benvolio already – a lot. To the point that Romeo honestly thought he was the one with his sight on Benvolio. But then again, it would have been way to easy if that had been the case. So asking them again was out of the question. He knew exactly who to ask – after all, there was only one person in Verona that was this observant – saved for the Ladies Capulet and Montague, who made it their lives' work to know everything.

“I'll ask Giovanni.”

Tybalt choked on his apple. “You what?”

“He would know.”

“How?”

He did not want to tell Tybalt about the puppets, or about the notes the Prince kept on his denizens just for the sake of records. “Trust me, he does. I'll see you in a while!”

And with that, he was gone, running full pelt back to the palazzo. It was only when he had reached the tapestry that he paused. He could not believe he was going to ask Giovanni, of all people, how to get Tybalt and Benvolio together. Well, not exactly that. Benvolio told him everything, so he would know if he had any love interest, man or woman. But maybe he was just a blind fool. So he had to do the next best thing – ask the one person in this city who could know. He opened the door and made his way as quietly as he could to Giovanni's workshop.

It had been ages since he last had come here. He had not dared return after that night. Rather, he had, but he had practically run away after mere minutes because he could not take the proximity any longer. And yet, there he was. The smell of cut wood comforted him – it felt warm. He went to the table, and of course Giovanni was not here. The Prince had a city to rule. He ran his hand on the hard surface, scarred by the tools. Heaps of curling scrapes of wood. He took them in his hand. This room filled him with longing. He missed it so much – he missed the time he used to spend here, watching Giovanni work. He could see it in his mind, but soon all he could see were Giovanni's hands and arms, and how he wanted these hands to touch him, these arms to close around him. He shook his head, trying to shove these thoughts away. He was not going to pine endless, was he? He had a mission, after all. He sat on the bench in front of the worktable, his eyes closed. He tried to get all thoughts from his mind, concentrating only on the smell, on the rays of sunlight that warmed his skin. Behind his eyelids, the small room had turned into gold and amber.

Steps warned him of Giovanni's arrival. A sudden thought burst into his mind, rooting him on the spot. Did Valentine know about this place? It was stupid, probably, but he could not prevent fear from settling in the pit of his stomach like lead. He almost told himself to shut up, but he reined the urge in. Giovanni has come into the room and stopped. Mercutio hesitated. What could he do, or say, when he had avoided the place for so long? Of course, Giovanni would have noticed, just how he had noticed his frequent lapses during his lessons. His eyes racked the table, searching for an excuse, something to talk about. Just as he heard Giovanni take a step forward, he saw it. Valentine had a new puppet. And so did Tybalt. How ironic. This Tybalt looked more like the Tybalt he knew. Without thinking, he reached for the wooden figure – it really looked like him, and Mercutio was taken aback when he noticed that he also bore a different expression. He had never noticed how each of these puppets had actual expressions, and were not just looking ahead with a blank stare.

“The last one I finished. The next one is yours.”

He could not bear the fondness in Giovanni's tone. It hurt him to think just how he was cared for, when it was so different from what he wanted for himself. But it was an offer, a way to start a conversation, and he felt that if he let that slip, he would lose something more important still than all he had lost already. Which did not make sense, because there was nothing beyond that, but it did not change his impression.

“They are impressive. How alive they seem... I never noticed.” Of all the things he could have said, it had to be that. He would have slapped himself.

Giovanni sat next to him, and his smile almost destroyed Mercutio's promise to remain focused on his task.

“The details came over time.” He picked Valentine's puppet, looking at it, then at Mercutio. “You two made me learn that. Especially now. You are so alike, I have to make sure you don't end up being exactly the same, right?”

He did not get it. Of course, he knew that. No one who did not know the truth would ever question that they were brothers, especially now that Mercutio had caught up with Valentine height-wise. He frowned. It did not really make sense, and these puppets were very detailed in their earlier versions.

“How do you mean? They were detailed before.”

“Sure, but don't you think that even when they don't change, or look very alike, people are never the same? It's what I wanted to achieve here. Facial expressions, and stance, really make the difference. Not the clothes, or the hair, or anything else.” Giovanni put the puppet back on the table, and picked a block of wood. It was very clear, and smooth. He then picked his tools and began working, now entirely focused on his work.

“You did not come just to look at my new creations. Something is troubling you, right?”

“How do you know?” He had not meant to say that, nor for it to come out as bitter. And yet, it happened. Giovanni did not glance at him, so maybe he did not notice? Or he was did not want to upset him, which somehow was ten times worse.

“I remember a time when saying 'I know everything' would have worked.”

Mercutio chortled. It was true. He was brought back years ago, and it felt nice. As though his unease suddenly melted away with those few words.

Giovanni still went on: “No one has complained about you for a while. Either you are sick, or something happened. And you look healthy to me.”

Mercutio smiled, and almost forgot to feel hurt – heartbreak obviously did not make him sick enough. But that was not the point.

“You caught me. So,” he cut to the chase, concentrating on Giovanni's movements to keep himself from rambling, “there's this person, this man... He's my friend. And another man. Also my friend. The first one is mooning over the second one. But of course, he doesn't notice, so my first friend is a mess, and I have to get them together but I don't know how!”

Giovanni had stopped carving the wood. He looked at him with raised eyebrows. So much for not rambling. And part of him noted that Giovanni had not reacted when he told him they were both men. Of course, he had not really expected him to. Or maybe yes? That's what people do when they have a secret they want to hide. Maybe he was not hiding anything, then, and Mercutio was the one who had decided to put the blinds on?

“Mercutio, don't you think that it would be easier for me to help you if I knew who you are talking about?”

He hesitated, and only decided to speak after Giovanni promised him not to go around speaking about it.

“Tybalt. And Benvolio.” He glanced at Giovanni, to see his reaction. He was not disappointed. The look of absolute disbelief that was plastered on his face was priceless. Giovanni looked as if he wanted to say something, but caught himself in time. And remained there, staring at him as if Mercutio had said the most preposterous thing ever. To his credit, Mercutio was a great specialist of ludicrous ideas – and was used to state them when someone was drinking. Mercutio kept a straight face. Tried to.

“You are not joking.” That was not even a question. Giovanni sighed and closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them again, he asked: “What can I do for you, then?”

“How do I get these idiots together?”

“I heard you the first time. But I am afraid I can't do much. You are their friend, not me. And by the way, if Tybalt is your friend, does it mean I won't hear of you two breaking the peace with poorly-timed duels?”

Mercutio gave a scandalized cry: “What of our reputation?! Verona is not ready for us to be friends!”

“But Verona is ready for a Prince who can't even force his so-called nephew to respect the rules.” Giovanni was leaning on the table, his chin propped on the palm of his hand. “It makes perfect sense. I promise you, it does.”

Mercutio laughed, and punched his shoulder lightly. “I've been telling you for years this was a perfectly normal occurrence.”

Giovanni shook his head, smiling. Mercutio was relieved that he was not angry with him. He had to admit it must be tough to enforce laws when your own 'relatives' did not respect them.

“How about getting them to talk?”

“How?”

“What if the Prince decided that a ball had to take place, in Villafranca, let's say. All great families are invited without exception.”

“Neutral ground. Nice one. But then?” If it was official, there was no way he could magic Benvolio or Tybalt away, let alone both of them. He was still skeptical when Giovanni told him exactly that. “I'm not sure. Won't people notice?”

“I'll think of something.”

“Wait, you would actually cover for me? What happened to the Prince of Verona, the one man who would chase me through Italy to give me an earful for disappearing in the middle of an official visit or something?”

Giovanni had picked up his tools and took to carving the wood again. It was starting to look vaguely human now. He took a few moments to reply, and during that time, Mercutio was wondering if he had not overstepped or something.

“The Prince is not here. But I am, and this ball is simply an excuse to help you in your matchmaking.”

“It's going to cost a lot! And I don't know if it will work!” And now he was trying to find excuses. He had no rational explanation for this, but now that it had become a more concrete project, he could not understand why Giovanni would be willing to throw a huge ball just so Mercutio could lend Tybalt a hand.

“Did you talk to Benvolio?”

“Aye, but I can't exactly go around and ask him what he thinks of Tybalt.”

“Indeed. Well, consider it this way: the ball is something that can happen for no valid reason, and it's been a while since I last saw Montague and Capulet together.”

“So it turns political?” He was floored. This man had to be evil, because who in their right mind would want to have these two pig-headed pater familias in one room just because it's been a while?

“More so, I heard complaints on both sides about their heirs refusing all matches proposed to them. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

Mercutio swallowed. This was bad, and surely, this had nothing to do with the Capulet ball he had helped Benvolio and Romeo to get in without invitation? He remembered how Giovanni had to interfere to prevent a new argument. But again, it might be that. And he now believed he understood why Romeo had seemed on another plane lately, more than usual, and why Juliet sent Paris home with his tail between his legs. Apparently, Giovanni shared his thoughts, because the half-smile he was sporting looked absolutely wicked. Mercutio froze. That was a terrible word choice. Their conversation went on without Giovanni commenting on Mercutio's sudden silence, and in the end, it was agreed that there would be a ball indeed, and Mercutio would do what he can to get his friends to talk, while Giovanni would do his best to know what was going on with Romeo and Juliet, and why their parents were growing so restless.

When he got back outside to meet with Benvolio, Mercutio realized that he really had missed his moments spent with Giovanni in the workshop. And he had brought it on himself, in the end. Giovanni had never avoided him, but rather, accepted that Mercutio did not come anymore. He had not questioned him. In turn, Mercutio thought he was being petty – he had forgotten he was not alone, and unrequited feelings did not excuse his disregard for both Giovanni and Valentine. He missed earlier times when he had yet to fall so helplessly in love. It was all much easier. Although he had an excuse now to tell his friends just how terrible a thing love was. He might want to stop doing that too much, as he was now officially a matchmaker.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The ball had gone as smoothly as possible. For dinner, the seating arrangement had been modified so that the three of them would be sitting together and throughout dinner, they had ended up talking like actual adults. Lord Capulet and Lord Montague both would have been frantic if they had not been to occupied raving about Romeo who had decided that seating arrangements were not for him, and sat right next to Juliet. Lord Capulet especially did not appreciate it one bit – he still expected Paris to be sitting there. Thankfully, the Prince had told everyone that this change was most welcome and if their own children were capable of holding civilized conversation, they ought to be left alone. Paris was sitting close to Valentine, and they were talking animatedly about something – perhaps falconry.

After dinner came more dances, and it was after a while that Mercutio managed to slip away with his friends. They kept talking, and Mercutio considered leaving after a while. It would have been too difficult to explain. He would leave when his presence would become a hindrance. Although apparently, Tybalt seemed content to just talk with them. It occurred to Mercutio just how lonely it must have been for him all these years. Mercutio had had Valentine, and Benvolio, and even Romeo. And Lord Capulet probably was not as nice as Giovanni when it came to rules in the house, and etiquette. All things considered, Mercutio was very lucky to have ended up in a family that treated him as a human being and not just as an asset. Tybalt would certainly carry the name of the family, as Benvolio, but neither was heir to titles and deeds in Verona.

He belatedly realized he had lapsed into complete silence when Benvolio waved a hand before his eyes.

“Sorry. I was spacing out.”

“We noticed. Anything on your mind?”

He shook his head. He just got caught in his thoughts, and did not remember to resurface. Maybe now was the time for him to leave the two of them alone. The thought brought something in its wake. He had done what he could to bring them together. And apparently it was working. But it was not something that would ever work for him. The shock of it must have registered on his face, because Tybalt asked him if he wanted to retire, that they would understand if he did. Gazing into Tybalt's face, he saw his concern. Certainly, he knew what was up. Usually, when it happened, he would take him in his arms – to try to get him to think of something else, to offer comfort. But that was not for him. Not now. He nodded. Yes, it was for the best, going to bed.

“You'll find your way back, right?”

“Don't worry about us.”

Mercutio got up, and sauntered away, half-laughing: “I don't worry about you, but about the poor maids who might stumble on the two of you hidden under a bush come morning!”

Benvolio let out an undignified squawk: “Mercutio!”

“I had to. Good night, good fellows. And no hiding in the bushes!”

He turned around to run away, but not before seeing Tybalt practically flop from the bench he had been sitting on. Benvolio had his face in his hands. He refused to think he had ruined it. If they were not exactly stupid – especially Tybalt, then it was a perfect subject for a new conversation. He ran upstairs to his room, not really caring that the ball was still in full swing as he passed it by. He did not want to linger where he could be seen. His name might have been called, but he did not pay it any attention.

Once in his room, he flung himself on the bed, and stopped moving. He had thought that helping Tybalt would take his own problems from his mind but it had not. He had hoped that he would be able to interact with Valentine normally after his afternoon in the workshop talking with Giovanni, but he had not. Every time, he felt like there was a veil between him and the others. He was lying to everyone because he did not have the courage to lie to himself. He knew full well it was unfair to them, that no one wilfully caused him pain, and he could not hold them responsible for it. And yet, he almost wanted to get back down to tell them. To tell them everything that had been holding him down for months now, if not years, although until then he actually managed to cope.

He opened his mouth in a silent scream, no sound could get out of him, though he thought he could hear it. He was going mad with this. All rational thoughts – that it was up to him to move on, that his life was certainly not over, that it probably was just a crush and it did not matter much in the end – all thoughts that used to sustain him and bring him peace were washed away by the cold realization that he brought all this upon himself and he had no way out. That he somehow deserved that pain because really, Giovanni was his uncle in all but blood, and he knew that. He knew that Valentine got brought in the family not to inherit the crown, but because he, Mercutio, did not want to live his brother behind. His feelings, whatever they were, were destroying him slowly and it was all his fault.

He barely heard the door open, and he knew it was Valentine. He wanted him to go away, to leave him alone. He could not speak. He did not budge when he felt the bed dip under his brother's weight. He did not try to move away when he felt Val lie against his back, his face on his shoulder. He had missed it – the closeness, and warmth, and just how safe he felt then. It was just like when he was a child and Val would tell him stories and hold him when he could not sleep. He remembered how he used to pour his heart out, and just tell him everything. He could not do that now. He would hurt them both if he did.

“You don't have to tell me anything, Cutio. And I can leave, if you prefer.”

It struck him. He felt that he should not let Valentine leave now. He turned around, looking into eyes that were lighter than his own, in a face that was merely an older version of his. He started crying, his breaths turning into gasps as he could not draw enough air, it was just too much. And he just loved him too much, why did love have to be so painful that even hatred felt like a comforting friend? And he just told Valentine, without ever saying a name, and if Val guessed who he was talking about, he did not say anything. He just remained here, and held him as he got everything from his chest, all the bitterness and anguish and longing and jealousy that had been eating him away for too long now.

Eventually, he calmed down, and Valentine was running his hand up and down his back and held him to his chest. Mercutio felt too exhausted to think. His body felt like lead and he wanted to sleep. He was lulled by Valentine's soft voice as he sung something – something he remembered from his days in the care of the old lady. He relaxed, his mind pleasantly devoid of thoughts to keep him awake. And if peace was to be short-lived, he only wanted to sleep and not think until next morning.

When he awoke, Valentine was still there. They had not moved at all, and he took comfort in the fact that his brother stayed with him. He had not left him in the middle of the night to- he refused to think about it. He would not let his mood worsen just on suppositions and whatever notions his brain would provide. Mercutio rolled out of Valentine's hold, and changed his clothes. He had to check something, actually. Grinning to himself, he sauntered down the corridor. And stopped. The sun was high now, he could see it from the windows. He tiptoed to Giovanni's bedroom. Yes, the man was still out cold. Old people don't know how to party, it seems. And it was late in the day. The Prince of Verona should be awake by now. And it had been too long since he last played such a prank. For obvious reasons. But Giovanni was alone, and so, now was the perfect time to enforce a very old and important tradition.

He took a deep breath, checked where Giovanni was exactly – not to land square on top of him and break his back. He then ran to the bed and leapt, and found himself half on top of Giovanni. He barely waited for him to shoot upward with a yell, looking around for the one responsible, and whispered, as though he did not mean to wake him: “Up you get, my lord! THE SUN IS BRIIIIIIIGHT!” And dashed away to avoid a possible punch that was probably not going to be a light one, and was out of the door when Giovanni roared his name.

He did not stop until he was in the garden, laughing to himself breathlessly. He knew Giovanni was going to get even with him, but that kind of stunts really made him feel better in general. Another thing he had not done in ages, so caught up in his own emotions to even interact normally. Because waking up Giovanni as he did when he was not yet ten was normal interaction. He felt much lighter. Talk to Valentine really helped – even if his brother was in the dark as to who he was talking about, it did not matter. He was grateful for this moment they shared, even if it was just him crying his eyes out. Now, to see whether or not he would find his friends in the bushes. He looked around, checked every shrubbery for traces of them, under the gardener's nonplussed watch. The man went back to work, and Mercutio was not exactly surprised that he did. After all, his antics were nothing to worry about, were they?

No Tybalt nor Benvolio in the shrubbery... He thought for a moment. Montague's or Capulet's? He shrugged. Better try both. He thus went to Montague's home, a spring in his step – and rather oblivious to people's stare. He did not care if he looked silly. He was on a mission – a mission to see if his mission was successful. Arriving at Lord Montague's palazzo, he asked one of manservant if Benvolio was up. Turned out Benvolio had not come back – and while it did not seem to faze anyone, it surprised Mercutio. It meant that he was at the Capulet's. If Capulets rarely bothered about boundaries and that kind of things, Montagues usually were more respectful. Also, it would not be so simple to scale the wall to Tybalt's window in broad daylight. Eventually, he managed – though not before trying everything short of scaling the other side of the building and get on the roof. Which he had done once and would never try again. Tiles were a diabolic invention meant for the honest uninvited guest to slip and break his neck on the ground.

All his effort were rewarded, in the end. Not just because Tybalt was still sound asleep – and so, did not hurl anything at Mercutio's head for being a reckless idiot to show up in the daytime. Tybalt was asleep, yes, but so was Benvolio, and Mercutio had to resist the urge to just coo. Yes, coo. He had to tell them, eventually, just how adorable and innocent they looked when they were asleep. Wait... Where was Ben's hand- Mercutio grinned. They did not just sleep, that was certain, and he was very curious as to what happened really. Benvolio stirred. And nuzzled Tybalt's shoulder and Mercutio almost let out a sound of delight. They were really too much. Still grinning like a maniac, he went out of the window, just in time before Benvolio woke up completely. Gripping the window sill for a moment, Mercutio was relieved not to hear anything that indicated that Benvolio regretted his current situation. Who would, really?

Happy with this new development, Mercutio made sure the way was clear before he let himself fall in the garden, and slipped out a side door in the wall. The one that was always locked at night but left open otherwise. Tybalt had once said it was very useful to get away from Capulet's scrutiny. You faked your going out, used that door, and back to your room in minutes. Mercutio did not believe him, at all, but it was still a fun thing to say, and coming from Tybalt, it was even more endearing. The Prince of Cats did have a sense of humour.

Mercutio went to the market, and wandered there, between stalls. He liked it very much, especially the part where merchants dealt spices from far away. He enjoyed all the smells that mingled together, and the colours that were as vivid as the silk and brocard sold farther away. He would have to ask the cook for spicier food, and also, that to die for cake with all sorts of dried fruits and apples. He loved the cinnamon in it, and did not really care if he ate too much at a time. He bought him an apple, and sweetmeats he would share with Valentine when he got back. Valentine liked those. And he was not sure if Mantua actually had the same ones. He purchased wine, blessedly cool, and went to sit near the fountain. Even if the sun was shining brightly, he was not hot, the running water cooling him down somewhat. He ate his apple slowly, relishing its freshness and slightly tart taste. He did not have to wait for long to see Benvolio enter the piazza. He had walked around a few houses not to give the impression he was coming from the Capulet house. How he actually managed to get out of here was a mystery, although Mercutio suspected Tybalt had had a hand in it. He waved at him when he got in sight.

He was relieved that Benvolio came to join him, it would have been slightly awkward otherwise. As his friend came closer, Mercutio watched him for any sign of tiredness, but no. He looked as he usually did. Not that he expected him to look different. That notion that people looked different after a night with their significant other was absolutely stupid.

“Good morning, Mercutio. You fell from your bed?”

“Must you hurt me so as soon as you see me? Cruel, cruel Benvolio!”

Benvolio sat down besides him with a smile. “Must I apologize?”

“Of course! But rather, apologize for having me searching you all across town because you somehow did not reach your bed last night.” He grinned at Benvolio. Whose reaction was everything he could have ever hoped for. His friend ducked his head in embarrassment but not before Mercutio saw his face turn much redder. He slung an arm around his shoulder.

“Now now, Ben, don't be embarrassed. I am proud of you both. After all, you spared both the shrubbery at Villafranca and the gardener's sanity.”

Benvolio curled forward, his head practically on the ground. “Must you?”

“No. But I like to.” He drew his friend closer to him. “But seriously, I hope you did not rouse the whole place!” He had just finished speaking that a shadow fell on him. It was almost too well-timed to have been fortuitous. He looked up, and offered Tybalt his most innocent smile.

“What do you think?”

“No, else Benvolio would not be there to tell the tale.”

“There is nothing to tell, Mercutio!” came the pained voice of Benvolio.

Mercutio did his best to look absolutely shocked. “My best friend daring all odds to enter Capulet territory at night and-” Tybalt's hand on his mouth prevented him from going on. He made a discontented sound, staring at him as hard as he could.

“Mercutio, I like you a lot, but if you keep running that mouth of yours...” He did not finish his sentence. Mercutio knew what he meant. Never mind the Prince's own stance on the matter, men loving men was not exactly talk for a crowded piazza. He nodded, and Tybalt let go of him.

He could not resist the urge to whisper: “You will find a better use for it, right?”

Benvolio emitted a choked sound, and Mercutio almost felt bad for it. Except he was used to that kind of retort, and to be fair, if he had not, he was sure they would have asked him what was wrong with him. Tybalt hissed his name, although he was clearly not as aggravated as he tried to sound. For one, he had not tried to strangle him. And he had not punched him either, or retorted anything equally compromising.

“How about we move, gentlemen? People are looking at us funny.” People had stopped, probably shocked to see them together yet not fighting.

Tybalt immediately got up, and waited for them, Benvolio still a bit red, though much less than before. Tybalt spoke again: “They are not used to it, incredible, isn't it?”

“You know, it could be a joke – a Montague, a Capulet, and a Della Scala hanging around together.”

“And since it would be a joke you'd make, it's bound to be a terrible one.”

Benvolio chortled at this, and the sound made him smile. He probably deserved it. Tybalt was laughing too, and soon they were laughing as hard as they could, for no other reason than the ridiculousness of the whole situation, and the way people kept staring at them. It was simply too insane not to be funny!

 


	6. Chapter 6

Mercutio was feeling better lately. Of course, he still had moments when sadness and jealousy threatened to overcome him, but when Valentine was not in town, he managed to push it from his mind. Which made him feel rather guilty – he missed his brother, and he resented himself for the relief he felt when he was away. He loved Valentine, he really did, and that was exactly why he felt so awful when he was around. Because seeing him with Giovanni – or rather, knowing they were together – was enough for him to wish him gone. The pain had dulled to a beating ache that echoed in his bones when he was not careful enough. He went out more, but now that Tybalt and Benvolio were working on their own relationship, there was no more time for him.

He truly felt alone, more than he had in recent years. He was a man now, and he was aware that expectations would soon be brought to his attention – among which, matrimony. And while he bore women no ill-will, he simply could not imagine himself making anyone suffer as he might from the situation. He laughed, the sound hollow and derisive. Who was he kidding? He would end up doing what was expected of him, because that was why he was made a Della Scala in the first place. He shook himself. It was no use dwelling on it now. He had things to do. Valentine's birthday was drawing closer, and he had to start thinking about gifts and everything. It was not such a big deal, usually, but Mercutio thought it would still be nice to have something special. Maybe he could convince Giovanni to let them go on a trip, maybe to Florence or Venice? He had heard so many stories about about Venice, he really wanted to go and see it. Maybe he should go and ask him now? Better start working on it early, since the old man can be stubborn as a mule when he wanted. Which was most of the time.

He set out to look for the Prince, and almost ran into a messenger who had dashed in the palazzo as though the devil was tailing him. Mercutio did not pay him any mind – it happened regularly, even more so since the Florentine had decided to needle the Venitian for whatever reason this time. Messengers came and went, to know where Verona stood in this mess that was the 'Republics shenanigans', as Giovanni was wont to put it. Verona was at peace and would remain so. Mercutio thus followed the messenger, at a distance – he did not need to be there too early, and he had to wait until he was certain that Giovanni was not in a foul mood to make his request. Diplomacy, all that. He was not prepared, however, for the outcries he heard. It must be very bad then. Except all sounds died after a final roar to 'get out'. He approached the door, throwing himself against the opposite wall in time to avoid the crowd of attendants that practically ran out. The messenger was with them. All were white-faced as though they had seen something too terrible for words.

Mercutio had a feeling that he probably should leave too, but then he saw him. He saw Giovanni standing, clutching his desk. Something was wrong, and it was too bad to be ignored. He cautiously stepped in, very quietly. If it was politics, he did not want to know. But it had to be, right? As he got closer, he saw the letter that the messenger must have been carrying. It was on the desk, and Giovanni was staring at it. His whole body was shaking, and his knuckles were white from the strain. Mercutio called him, softly. He was scared. Too scared for words. He had never seen Giovanni in that state, ever. Dread hit him like a fist in the guts. He did not want to know. When Giovanni looked up to him, his face was a frozen mask of despair, of disbelief – he did not speak. He could not, it seemed. Mercutio took the letter, gingerly. He read, the words written so fast they were barely legible. As he read, he felt all the blood drain from his face, his hands. He felt so cold. His legs buckled under him and he crumpled to the ground. He could not hold himself upright. Pain, absolute, white-hot, pierced his chest, choking him. He could not breathe – it had to be a prank. A stupid, stupid prank. He looked up at Giovanni, and of course, it was no prank. He heard a wail, and he was the one wailing. He could not hold it in. Tears blinded him and he could not control himself – grief was tearing him apart, he could not breathe at all, his lungs refusing to work, and he was shaking on the ground. It could not be. And yet, he knew it was true. Valentine was dead.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Mercutio did not feel anything. Or rather, he felt hollow. The sun nor the fire in the hearth might have burned his skin without warming him. He wandered – away from the palazzo, unable to face the memories enfolded in its walls. He could not bear to face Giovanni. Giovanni who was shying from everyone like a wounded animal, refusing to move unless he was forced to. So Mercutio left. The palazzo was a tomb, the tomb of times past. In his wanderings, he sometimes met his friends. Benvolio would insist to have him stay with him, reluctant to leave him alone. This made Mercutio smile. He was not going to run after Tybalt for a fight, now. Or he might. But he knew that Tybalt would not be serious about it anyway. And men who might have fought him were too scared to accept his challenge. Not afraid of him. Afraid of the Prince – all new that Valentine was gone, and all knew that if anything befell Mercutio, retribution would be exacted swiftly and mercilessly. These men were probably afraid of Tybalt, who dogged Mercutio's steps across the city. Mercutio almost laughed – Tybalt, of all people, was protecting him.

He stopped in front of Santa Maria Antica. The irony. To think that Valentine was now buried close by. So close. He did not want to go in, yet his feet carried him past the doors and frankincense assaulted him. It was an old church. Rather, it had been a place of worship even before its destruction centuries prior. It carried the weight of ancient places, a timelessness that filled him and broke him at the same time. He did not care for mass, for the hassle of having to be there, for the Eucharist. But these were stones, stones men used to build this place because they believed in something greater than themselves, and Mercutio envied them. Maybe believing would make it easier. He signed himself, out of habit, and because even if he did not believe – could not believe – in the presence of something holy in this place, respect was still owed. It probably was stupid anyway. He walked in the nave, quietly, focusing on his steps not to make any sound. He did not want to disturb the still air. He went to the dark benches on his right, knelt as though in prayer – his mind was in turmoil. He breathed in. He had never set foot in a church of his own free will. It seemed fitting that he did now – because it was closest he could be to Valentine without having to look at his grave. He choked. His grave. He still was no closer to accepting it than he was two weeks ago. The only difference was that now he was going out, instead of lying in bed, nursing his grief and crying himself to a husk.

He folded his hands on the wood, and looked up. Looked upon the face of Christ – and what man would have been tormented such and retain such serenity. It was almost an insult to the pain he was feeling. And the guilt. The word made him recoil. He knew he had no hand in Valentine's death, and yet, this place, of all places, brought home the accusation. These words, that 'but you hoped he would go away', 'you envied him too much' – they hurt him, but he did not try to evade this pain. It was true. He closed his eyes, the incense wrapping around him in the chill darkness of the church; the stones leeching his warmth, the wood hard under his knees. The discomfort forced him to focus. He wanted Val to come back, even if one instant, to tell him. How much he loved him, and cared for him, and missed him. How sorry he was. How terrible he felt for envying him thus. For never wishing him the happiness he deserved, because it had come at the price of his own. How selfish he had been! And how would Val ever forgive him for this? For his greed and envy and selfishness? For the distance he had put between them? All because he had been too young and too stupid and too careless to remember that life on this Earth was too temporary for such concerns? Oh, how it was true, that he never realized how much he loved him before he had lost him.

A presence at his side, that he had not noticed first. Now he could feel the warmth radiating. The calm. Only one person would have followed him here – his shadow. He did not look at Tybalt. He leaned on him, finding him much closer than he had thought – closer than would have been proper, not that he cared about this. He felt Tybalt's arm around him, drawing him closer, and he wanted to weep. His heart was breaking again. As though he would never be happy again, and all comfort he would ever have would be that of his friends. And how could Tybalt bear to follow him, and comfort him now? He did not deserve any of these...

“Hush. You do.”

He had spoken aloud. He did not even have it in him to be offended that Tybalt had not pretended not to have heard. He did not move. He knew he was crying now, the tears falling freely, staining his clothes. He did not care. He could not take it any more. All that pain, all that grief. He was just a man, and he had reached his limit. Tybalt did not draw back, did not relinquish his hold on him, and for this, Mercutio was glad. It was a small mercy, to be anchored by his warm embrace and everything seemed so dark, so cold. He made a choking sound that bounced off stone repeatedly – uncough, wordly, unbecoming of such a place. Ah, but weren't churches places of penance, places where the grieving would gather? It did not matter.

Tybalt led him outside. Mercutio could not bear to be in this place any longer. He did not want to open his eyes and gaze on the representation of another man's suffering. He had enough of his own. The sun was still high in the sky. He had not noticed before. He let Tybalt lead the way, away from the church, away from the Arche. Away from the world of the dead and to that of the living. It did not really matter that Mercutio did not want to be there, among people. He did not want to be alone, and so, he would follow his friend. Soon, they were joined in their wanderings by Benvolio. Benvolio who proposed they would remain together as long as Mercutio needed. Benvolio knew him too well, it seemed. He wanted to smile, but he did not have the heart to, and his friend did not deserve a hollow grimace meant to pass as such.

Even when night came, and that he knew that he should go back to Villafranca, he would let Benvolio convince him to stay, and only there, surrounded by his closest friends', their kindness and warmth, could he let sleep overcome him. He spent days in their companies, and it seemed that the feud had abated, or maybe he had grown deaf to its outcries? He laid in bed, lulled by Benvolio's deep breathing. He noticed that Tybalt had moved to his side, and was holding him. Both were sound asleep. And it hit Mercutio – he was in 'their' bed, between them – and why? Because he was too grief-stricken to move or even think by himself? It was unfair – he had no right to do that, not after what Tybalt had gone through. How often they had talked, or remained silent. How much he had hoped for Benvolio to notice and for them to finally get together. He felt like his presence was spoiling it. He was destroying everything, just by being there, he was sure of it. Tears welled in his eyes, his throat constricting mercilessly. He choked. He had to leave, now. But as soon as he moved, he realized it was a mistake. Tybalt had tightened his grip on him, obviously awake now, and Benvolio was looking at him, struggling to process the situation.

“Merc? What's going on?”

“I- I have to leave.” He did his best to whisper but his voice cracked and he sounded like a wounded animal,and hated himself for it. Tybalt had risen, and was holding him close.

“No, you don't.” Tybalt's voice was low, and Mercutio froze. He could not fight this – he knew he could never wrestle out of Tybalt's grip. He let go, boneless in Tybalt's arms. And the tears kept coming, burning his cheeks. He just could not stay silent. He had to explain to them – that it was all a mistake, that he had to go, that he was destroying everything, that he prevented them from building their relationship, that he was just a burden to them, and really, how dared he still weep when his brother had been buried for weeks now and that really, whatever prevented him for going to Giovanni and just talk to him? He told them everything, incoherent and terrified. Terrified of being left alone, and yet certain that he deserved it. He deserved all this pain to atone for his selfishness and envy.

He barely noticed Benvolio getting closer to him, and holding him too. He just cried, until his tears dried out and all that remained were ugly, painful sobs that racked his whole body. He apologized.

“There's nothing to forgive, Merc. And you think we would have asked you to stay if you were a burden?”

“Ah, but you are a kind soul, Ben. You have to save everyone.” He tried to smile.

Tybalt let out a low snort: “I'm not. Really, you think I'd bother if I didn't want to?”

That was true, of course. Mercutio nodded. Of course, Tybalt would never let himself be burdened by anyone or anything, that much was true.

“Just sleep, Mercutio. And tomorrow, we'll get you ready to go back to Villafranca. Hell, I'll kick down the doors myself if I have to!”

Mercutio laughed, and he thought he heard Benvolio calling Tybalt out on that plan. That it was a dreadful thing to say. It lifted his heart. And it was such a Tybalt thing to do, kicking doors open. Benvolio spoke again: “I agree with him. We'll get you to Villafranca. And the doors will remain intact.”

“Get them from their hinges?”

Benvolio let go of them, and flopped back on the mattress. And missed. He fell backward on the floor. Mercutio laughed, in spite of himself, and so was Tybalt. When he came back up, Benvolio was smiling. Mercutio was relieved he was not mad. Although it had happened to him quite often as well, especially when- The thought died. He felt the darkness threaten him again; Tybalt's tightening hold brought him back. He refused to let himself be tied down to grief. They both were right. He will go to Villafranca, he will say his piece. And if it doesn't work, well, at least he would have tried. They settled back to sleep. He felt much calmer now – talking to them had taken this weight from his chest. He will confront his feelings, all the thoughts that had made his life a living Hell for the past few years. He owed it to himself – not to waste away. He owed it to Valentine – he would not have wanted him to.

 


	8. Chapter 8

When Mercutio awoke, he found Tybalt and Benvolio in quiet conversation. Both were already dressed, Tybalt sitting on the table, Benvolio on the chair. He stretched, feeling more rested than he had in a while. He sat up, greeting them both. He went to the basin, to refresh himself. He noticed, after he had dried his face, that Benvolio had picked his clothes for him. It was a telling sign that he had his clothes sitting with Benvolio's – which is something that had been happening for years, because Mercutio had often slept over. More so over the past few days, when he just could not stay in Villafranca at all. They helped him out, made sure he was presentable, and he made fun of them for it, but was grateful all the same. They walked with him to Villafranca – never mind the stares of the people they came across. Once he arrived to the gates, the guards moved away. They looked strained, which was not a good sign. Tybalt squeezed his shoulder, and Benvolio gave him a one-armed hug, before they left. He squared his shoulders. He would not back down now. He took the first step, and it echoed through his bones. He kept going.

As soon as he had gotten in the hall, one of the attendant ran to him – asking him how he was, where he had been. Mercutio answered as truthfully as he dared, apologizing for not having notified him of his departure – he had not dared disturb the Prince with such thing. The attendant waved his apologies away. The man suddenly broke off.

“What's going on, man?” Dread was descending on Mercutio. Had anything happened to Giovanni? No, it couldn't be, else the whole city would have been in uproar.

“The Prince... he... he has shunned everyone out. He barely speaks at all, and it's with the greatest difficult that we can get him to eat anything.” The man clasped Mercutio's arm tightly, looking at him with such desperation, it was painful to watch. “Please, talk to him! He is not himself!”

Mercutio nodded: “I will. Please, tell the cook to be ready, just in case. Is he in his rooms?”

“Yes. He locks himself in.”

Mercutio thanked the man and stomped up the stairs. This made him angry. The Prince had no right to act like this, he could not. Full of righteous rage, Mercutio made sure his arrival was noticed. Once he got to the heavy doors, he took a deep breath. He could not stop now. He raised his fist, waited... and banged as hard as he could on it.

Came the muffled voice of Giovanni, telling him to go away.

“I won't. Open that door!”

“No! Leave!”

Mercutio was seething. No way he let Giovanni dismiss him, no sir. He kicked the door, hard enough for the panes to rattle in their frame.

“Open that door or I kick it down! And if I can't, I'll just bring an axe to finish it!”

No answer. Fine. He stormed off, and went to the armoury, to pick an axe. It had a single edge but would be sufficient. Mercutio had never used it but he was quite sure not even these doors could withstand the half-moon blade. He went back, scaring the servants in the process.

“This is the last summon. I will hack it to pieces if you don't get off your ass!”

The door was thrown open right when Mercutio was raising the axe. In the doorway stood Giovanni, towering over him, and he looked every bit as angry as Mercutio felt. Good. Mercutio did not even think enough to be intimidated. He dropped the weapon, grabbed the Giovanni by his sleeve and dragged him back into the room, kicking the door shut. Immediately, he was assaulted by the stale smell of a room kept shut for too long. Clearly, Giovanni had not gone out for days on end and probably did not bother opening the windows. This had to change. He went to the windows, opening them, and completely ignoring the glowering presence of Giovanni at his back. The room itself was a mess – papers everywhere, the bed in a sorry state. In short, it looked how his own room would have if he had been shut down like this since Valentine's death.

He rounded up on Giovanni and observed him. His shirt was half-open, and normally, he would have stared at him. Hard. He did not then – he assessed him. His face was drawn, a sign of too little sleep, or bad sleep. He looked paler than usual, no doubt because he stayed inside. And he was fairly certain that he was thinner. He also had the air of someone who had taken to the bottle and forewent most of basic hygiene routine – it was the kind of smell Mercutio knew for having been around varied crowds all his life. Giovanni had been neglecting himself. For grief. Mercutio was torn. It hurt to see Giovanni in that state – because that was probably how he would have ended up himself if it had not been for Tybalt and Benvolio. He had had support. Giovanni obviously had had none. _Because you were his support, and you left._ He hated himself for it. He should have thought about it, of course, but at the time, he did not want to be reminded of what had been – everything else. He wanted to go away. And he managed it because he was only the Prince's nephew, and not the Prince himself. Giovanni had not moved under his scrutiny. He seemed too stunned to react. Mercutio broke the silence: “Have you eaten?”

“No.” How hollow he sounded, all anger gone.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Giovanni frowned. Then shook his head. He did not remember.

Mercutio sighed. He decided to take matters in his own hands. He had to. “I will call the servants. You desperately need a bath and a good shave. And this room has to be cleaned, properly.” Giovanni did not budge. Mercutio took one second to think. He could not have Giovanni go to Valentine's old room. So he told him to go to his own.

Giovanni sighed, shaking his head: “Mercutio, really-”

“No argument! Go to my room. And I'll fetch you food. When I come back you are clean, dressed, and you will eat.”

He went out, not even bothering with the door again. He gave the orders to the servants, and went to the kitchen to get the cook to prepare a broth. He was fairly sure that Giovanni would not be able to stomach an actual meal after a long fast like that. He was relieved, when he went around the palazzo, waiting for Giovanni to be ready, to hear no struggle. Giovanni truly was apathetic. It hurt him. He was not used to that situation. Giovanni was the one who had cared for him whenever he was sick, or just any time, really. It was very strange to have their position reversed. When he was certain that Giovanni was ready, he went to fetch the food to bring him. He brought the broth, fresh bread, water, and also a piece of cheese, because he knew Giovanni loved cheese this much. He also took two apples. He brought it all upstairs, and knocked before he stepped into the room. Clean, with his hair and beard trimmed, and dressed in fresh clothes, Giovanni looked much more like himself. He barely moved when Mercutio got in, though. He laid the food on his desk. He noticed how Giovanni looked at it. He had starved himself, that much was clear, and apparently, all was not lost, because he looked like he could eat the whole thing in the blink of an eye.

“Just eat. Slow, though.” Of course, Giovanni knew – he had taken care of Val and him often enough to know that eating too fast could be disastrous. Seeing Giovanni eat, although slowly and carefully, felt like a victory, to Mercutio. He managed what no one else had so far. He figured he should talk – the silence unnerved him. So he proceeded to tell him about his last few days with Tybalt and Benvolio – how they went about town – though not all together. How the feud seemed much tamer now. How everything was quieter. And this merchant from Venice brought new spices and they really smelled great! He also wanted to tell him about Benvolio and Tybalt, but he did not elaborate on it. He did not want to make it worse for Giovanni. He kept chatting, not really expecting a reply, but being simply happy to talk. He took an apple and began peeling it, cutting it into quarters that he laid on the cloth in front of Giovanni. Who just looked at him as if he had grown mad. Mercutio simply shrugged.

“You did it for me. I figured I would too.” He took a bite from the quarter he had just cut. This apple was really nice. Fresh and all. Giovanni mimicked him. In moments, his plate was cleared, and so were the apples. Though Mercutio ate the second one by himself. Only then did Giovanni speak.

“Why are you doing this?”

Mercutio froze. Giovanni's voice was so small, so unlike himself, if he had not seen him speak he would have thought someone else was in the room. He thought for a moment, to come up with something that made sense. He was not certain why he did this – or rather, he did, but how to explain?

“I just... I don't want you to waste away.” He paused.

“You're late for this.”

This angered him once more. He could not bear it. He could not bear the vision of Giovanni fading in front of him, that terrifying acceptance that nothing could get better.

“I'm not. You have eaten.”

“Because you wanted me to, no?”

“You are starving yourself, that's what you are doing!” He rose, even if he did not mean to. He expected Giovanni to rise, to look down on him, to order him to keep silent. But he remained motionless. He looked so forlorn. Mercutio did not think, he grabbed his collar, forcing him to look at him. “I won't let you die, you hear? I loved him too! I mourn him too! And you have no right to leave everything behind just because of that, you-”

“Who are you to remind me of my duties? My duties to a city that doesn't care as long as I rule? _How dare you!_ ” Giovanni had bellowed the last part, and Mercutio took a step back. He had gone way too far, that was certain. And still, he did not let go off him.

“I don't care about Verona! I care about you! I love you! And when Val died, you abandoned me, just like Verona abandoned you! What am I to you, that you shunned me in your grief? I was hurt too!” He was too angry, his shouts deafening him. He just could not stop. He could not stop the rage and pain that poured out of him, eating him away. Giovanni was standing there, looking at him, but Mercutio could not make out his expression. He went on: “What am I going to do if you are gone too?”

“Mercutio...” Giovanni had spoken his name softly, but he heard it clearly. The sound broke him. He just wanted to forget any of this ever happened. That he was still a child, and that Giovanni would hold him close to help him feel better. But it was not going to happen, was it?

Tears threatened to blind him, he could barely breathe, his anger drained as suddenly as it flared to life. He spoke in broken whispers – maybe he did not want Giovanni to hear him, or maybe he wanted him to have an excuse to ignore what he was going to say. Or maybe he wanted nothing at all, teetering on the verge of emptiness once more.

“I can't lose you. I can't. I've loved you for too long, and I don't care if I'm a fool, but I love you, and I can't face existence if you go too.” He turned away. He did not want Giovanni to look at him, and he did not want to see his face as he rejected him. Because Val had just died, and there was no way Giovanni would simply accept it. He was certain of it. He was not prepared for Giovanni to gather him in his arms, holding him so tightly it almost hurt. A drowning man, it seemed. And how familiar he was with that imagery.

“I won't leave. Even if I wanted.”

Mercutio clung to him, his fingers clutching the heavy material of his shirt. He repeated those three words again and again, because he had to, even if he was never to say them again. He faintly heard Giovanni say something but he could not grasp it. He raised his face, asking him to repeat it.

“I love you, Mercutio.”

He did not understand. He did, but he did not. But his ears were not deceiving him. He had so many questions, but he had no idea where to start. And as often when Mercutio was left speechless, he decided against trying to speak. He rose on his feet, pulling Giovanni towards him, and kissed him. He did not know what got into him, but if it was all an illusion, he had to make the most of it. He let out a surprised cry when Giovanni brought him closer, and deepened the kiss. He was overwhelmed, his heart leaping in his chest, his whole body burning for more. He could not believe it was happening. He moaned into the kiss, incapable of restraining himself. He would have wept. And maybe he was, after all. It was over too soon – his mind was still reeling, and he tried to catch his breath. He waited, suddenly scared out of his wits that it had been an illusion, that Giovanni had merely humoured him before rejecting him. He could not look at him in the eye. He simply stood there, his fingers digging in Giovanni's clothes – whether not to fall or hold him back, he could not say. Giovanni remained silent, and kept holding him. He too seemed to be waiting, but after a few moments, it dawned on Mercutio that maybe, maybe he was as lost as he was himself. Mercutio leaned forward, tentatively, and let himself sink completely in Giovanni's embrace when he was sure it was alright for him to do so. He felt Giovanni's hand moving up and down his back, caressing his hair. It was alright.

Questions came back to him then. He had forgotten all that he had wanted to ask previously. It did not seem to be the right time, but he could not keep them in. Better having them out of the way. His first question was – was this all happening for real? And he was reassured when Giovanni said that yes, it was, and it was fine. Mercutio's heart swelled – he was loved, in the end. Eventually, they went to sit on the bed, Mercutio leaning against Giovanni's shoulder as he had often done over the years. A way of showing him he trusted him. They talked for a while, until Mercutio got to the crux of his past anxiety:

“Why didn't you tell me? About you two?” That had been bugging him a lot. Why did they hide, knowing that Mercutio himself was known to be rather... open about that sort of things. In fact, he was fairly sure that Giovanni had suspected him of going to a certain Capulet.

“Valentine wanted to tell you. But I refused. Maybe because then you would have asked – why him? And how could I have told you what I just did?”

They remained silent for a while. Mercutio weighed his answer. It was a valid reason in the end – because he would have asked indeed. And he might have flown off the handle on that occasion.

“I have another question...” He was not sure he wanted to know the answer to it, though.

“Yes?” Giovanni had his arm around his shoulder again.

“You loved each other... and you love me.” He had to get it out. “Am I a replacement for him?” It hurt him to think so, but at the same time, how could he not ask? It was not like he was not a near-perfect copy of Valentine, after all.

“You aren't.” A soft sigh, and some time during which Giovanni gave it some thought. “It would be unfair to you if it was the case. Just like I meant to keep my distance with you at first. I just loved you both.”

Mercutio was puzzled. What on Earth did he mean by that? He asked.

“You were too young. I did not want you to feel forced into anything.” He gestured Mercutio to wait. “I had no idea how you would have reacted. And before you ask me, Valentine was not a substitute for you either.”

“You were waiting?” He almost wanted to laugh. The mighty Prince of Verona was waiting for him to be of age? That was grand. And absolutely stupid. Giovanni did not even seem so offended when he told him so.

“If you want another explanation, I just did not want to appear greedy, or make it look like I made it my mission to ruin you for anyone else.” Giovanni smiled at him, the first real smile Mercutio had seen in a while. He was glad they progressed to lighter conversation.

“You know what it's called? Hubris.”

“You would know about this, wouldn't you Mercutio?”

“Absolutely.” He grinned. “And you are a prince. Greed is part of the job.”

Giovanni sighed. There are things that would never change.

 


End file.
